WRITING

It began as soon as we got married. Once the euphoria of the wedding day had dissolved and life had resumed its conventional form, the question arrived. The question. As if it was a query that had been preloaded for years with the wedding acting as a release valve to kick it free. It was members of the family who ventured forward first, earnestly firing their enquiry at us, succumbing to the sheer desperation to just know. We just want to know. Truth be told, it’s a straight-forward question without a straight-forward answer.“So….when you are having kids?”Not if. When. The next stage. The wedding is over now. We want something else. Do something else. Have a baby. We want you to have a baby. Go on. Do it.

I grew up on a country lane in a rambling farmhouse,That was old and damp my mum would oft’ grouse.It was centuries old and impossible to heat,Lighting the fire in the snug an essential treat.Positioned on the edge of an encompassing wood,Where we used to play as much as we could.My mum was hesitant ‘bout letting us play there,But for my brother Tom and I, it became our lair.We’d explore it all day and play near the stream,But everything in those woods was not as it seems.We found an old gnarled tree we both liked to climb, It became the place we spent most of our time.There was a spot high up where thick branches met,We attached sticks and blankets and our den was all set. We’d dream up different games as we hid in our den,Tom was older than me, he was nearly ten.He became bored and wanted to go deep in the woods,But Mum had said no and I wasn’t sure we should.But he was older than me and held far greater sway,So we headed deeper into the woods one terrible day.